” oh, dear! what if it should rain? can you imagine anything worse than organdy in the rain? and yet if it doesn’t rain, can you imagine anything worse than to have on dark silk, at harvard class day, with everyone else in organdy?”
thus félicie, flattening her imperial nose against the window pane, a scowl menacing her untrodden brow, as the few clouds in the skies were menacing the calm of the june day.
joy had been with félicie and her aunt throughout the spring, a troubled spring of work and restlessness. the old wild longings that had once shaken her did not return. there was instead a dull, sick emptiness, which engulfed her work rather than allowing itself to be engulfed.
few events had marked joy’s calendar. her father had made his long-anticipated visit, and found himself pleased with her environment as well as charmed by pa graham. under pa’s guidance joy had worked herself into a position from which she could map out her progress for the next few years. “nothing but death can stop me,” she told herself; and the words grew into a sort of refrain that twinkled into her mind at regular intervals, generally putting to rout some unwarranted flight of fancy.
félicie had taken the spring at a pace that left faint smudges beneath her eyes, and an ever-so-little receding of the tide of colour on the cheeks that she boasted had never known a rouge-puff. it seemed as though she had been wound up and could not stop. evenings when there was no excuse for going out, no especial festivity to attend, she would go to the movies, eat down a few thrills, leave early and dance late. sometimes in the mornings, when her yawns were irrepressible, joy would ask her why she never let down.
“my dear, you can’t stop going—you lose your grip!” she said, wide-eyed that the answer was not obvious.
“losing your grip” was the one thing the excitement-eaters seemed to dread.
now, félicie was chafing between a watermelon-coloured organdy and a dark blue taffeta, both laid challengingly upon the bed.
“why did i say i’d go, anyway?” she complained. “of course, i want to go. it’s interesting, even if there are millions of relations and absolutely no cut-ins—but it isn’t worth it to have all this trouble about deciding!”
“if everyone usually wears organdy, why not chance it? they’ll all be in the same boat if it rains.”
this from joy, as she combed her hair preparatory to donning organdy herself. hal jennings, the harvardite who was taking félicie to class day, had given her two tickets for the stadium exercises and his club spread, and joy had accepted félicie’s invitation to share the tickets. she had never seen harvard class day, and her anticipation was not dimmed by félicie’s grumping. félicie was always like that if she had to decide anything.
“oh, i suppose so,” said félicie, and retired to the closet to change; “but you know how it looks in the rain!”
when they were duly arrayed in filmy pink and blue, they presented themselves to madame durant for approval. she always liked to see félicie before she went out anywhere, to criticize or approve her costume—usually to command changes, which was a sore trial to félicie, as refutation into an ear-trumpet is as futile as it is disagreeable.
madame durant approved their “simple dresses” at first, then when they were ordered to “turn around,” remarked accusingly that she could see right through them, and they must each put on another good, thick petticoat.
joy and félicie exchanged glances of despair. if there is anything a girl hates, it is a good, thick petticoat. but the ear-trumpet ruled, and they retired to bolster themselves out. since joy had been associated with madame durant, she had made allowances for many of félicie’s characteristics. when they were starting out of the door, the penetrating voice that deaf people often acquire recalled them. those little light coats weren’t enough. they must take long, dark coats and umbrellas. félicie started to crumple, then remembered her starched dress and compressed her emotion into a waver.
“it’s bad enough to go not knowing how the weather’s going to act, but to go dressed piebald!”
but they muffled themselves up properly, and with a final interlude of feeding the dog so that madame durant would not have it to do later, they were off. félicie had refused to enter a street car in light things. “they’ll think we’re shop-girls just back from the park, you know they will!” and so they had indulged in the formal luxury of a taxi.
“i suppose auntie was wise about those coats,” félicie said; “but i do hate to encourage her in anything.”
“it seems so strange to have an older woman supervise one’s clothes,” said joy. “i suppose that’s because my mother died when i was so little, and father never wanted anyone to take her place—he wouldn’t even have a housekeeper.”
“most girls would have been pretty queer, living that way. you were lucky to have come through it all right.”
“but did i?” joy wondered, as félicie turned to peer out of the window at the smug blue sky. she had dismissed the subject.
“i’ve never been able to figure out why harvard always gives such pepless parties compared to other colleges. i’d never mention it to a harvard man, because you know it’s just as bad as discussing religion, you never get anywhere—but why do you suppose it is?”
“never having been to a harvard affair——”
“i shall die to-night, simply pass out, that’s all. i’m sunk when i think of it. i just will make hal take me somewhere else, that’s all. in the first place everyone brings a girl and you know that’s wrong. it leaves absolutely no stags. that ruins everything right there.”
“poor harvard! getting knocked for single-mindedness,” joy murmured.
“that’s just what it is! at the harvard-yale game last fall, some yale men, friends of greg’s, came over and cut in on me at the tea dance afterwards—they really made the dance almost good—and the harvard men were simply furious! they’ve just got their minds set on straight dances!”
“oh, well, you can’t generalize. all harvard men can’t be so resourceful that they enjoy having a whole dance with a girl.”
before félicie had this sifted down, the taxi-man drew up and informed them that they would have to walk from there.
the little clouds that had threatened like a baby’s playful fist in the sapphire laughter of the sky, were now striking blows of grey menace into the blue.
“didn’t i know it would rain!” félicie wailed. “just look at that sky. why do they have the stadium exercises out-doors?”
scattered lines of people hurrying to the stadium; hundreds and hundreds of girls in all colours of organdy, with organdy hats—and spotless white slippers. complacent mothers; excited fathers, trying not to look too proud; nondescript and sometimes awful people who would be lumped under the gross head, relations; all urging their way to the stadium. it seemed as if the world was at harvard class day—the world, and its relations. as they were led to their cold stone seats by a brick-cheeked youth who hid his admiration beneath a mask of “harvard indifference,” a treble voice lifted itself out of the crowd.
“why, joy nelson! yes, it is! hullo, joy! it’s me—see?”
it was betty grey, in black and white organdy combined in sophisticated lines that made her look all of eighteen—betty grey, who threw herself over to where joy and félicie were installing themselves, and hung a charming wedge between two surging lines of people anxious to get to their places.
“i haven’t seen you for such ages, i thought you were dead or something! you know, how you always think people are dead or something, when you don’t see them!”
a struggle ensued behind, which failed to dislodge her while she met félicie. “people seem to be pushing me, but they don’t mean it—i always say, judge a crowd kindly—this is my first class day, and i’m terribly excited! have you been singing just lots this year?”
“just lots,” joy repeated gravely. “what have you been doing? and how is—everybody?”
“oh, grant’s all right. i haven’t done anything but flunk english history—there’s a girl visiting us who knows you and your cousin—oh dear, it feels as if everyone in the world was pushing me! i’ll see you later, what spread are you going to?”
and betty grey was swirled along out of sight.
“they’re starting,” said félicie. “look, all the classes march in.”
it was at that moment when félicie forgot to look at the sky, that the rain came down—and in no pathetic boston drizzle; it gave itself out in the quantities it had been holding back all day, generously making up for lost time.
all over the stadium people stood up and umbrellas snapped open, spreading their inky mushroom caps over slim stems of organdy. “it’ll only last a minute,” said someone, and the word was passed along until the mushrooms bobbed to the repetition: “only a minute—only a minute!”
“it’s going to be more than a minute,” said joy, whose feet were getting wet. “i’m going out until it stops.”
“through all that crowd! i’d rather sit here, as long as we have umbrellas.”
“well, a cold doesn’t mean to you what it would to me. i’ll come back when it holds up”; and joy plunged forward into the flock that was making its way to the nearest exit. beneath the stone shelter of the stadium she found herself but little better off. the ground trampled by hundreds of wet feet was soggy; dripping people shook themselves all around her. she turned to seek a dryer place, and knocked into a young man who was hastening by. they both drew back with apologies which faded into silence on their lips. it was packy.
“joy!”
“why, hello, packy.” she tried to speak naturally; he made no attempt, and stood staring down at her until they became aware of the enraptured gaze of two pink-organdied flappers, who were obviously regretting the fact that they had so much hair mattressed over their ears.
“joy—i’ve wanted to see you for a long time—where can we go, so i can talk to you?”
they fell back to the lee of one of the entrances, where there was comparative calm.
“i never had the nerve—to call up again, after that night—but i wanted to see you—i’ve wanted to see you for a long time—to tell you what i thought of myself for acting the way i did.”
packy had grown in the months that had passed since she had seen him. the gangly stripling with the restless, roving eye and the feet that were always beating out a syllable of jazz, was gone, leaving only reminiscences of himself. he had gathered composure, and his eyes had lost their look of seeking excitement.
“what have you been doing this year, packy?” she asked involuntarily.
“oh, that’s neither here nor there. as a matter of fact, i’ve been working.”
working! packy, the gilded one, with an income to keep him and his among the polo-labourers and golf-toilers!
“but—well, i’ve written i don’t know how many letters to you, joy—and torn them up. letters are rotten when you really want to say anything.”
they are distracted by a little girl, her organdy clinging to her in sodden folds, her improbable complexion fast fading to incoherency, as she came limping out of the rain to her mother who, firmly dry, had been standing against a pillar.
“oh, mother, the rain has shrunk my shoes all up—i can’t hardly walk——”
“no-ra! you were out there, all this time? you’ve always heard about people who didn’t know enough to come in when it rained!”
“that good lady,” said packy, “has described me complete. last fall, i didn’t know enough to come in when it rained. i did know a few things, though, joy. can you believe that i could never have been such a cad—if i hadn’t been drunk?”
“i—can,” said joy.
“i’ve thought it all over—i don’t know how many times—and i’ve thought it out. to go in back of the fact that i misjudged you—i misjudged jerry and sarah. because we could act as freely at the apartment as though we were at our club—because they were on their own—and because you were with them, and on your own,—i thought—well, i didn’t quite think so at that—until i was drunk—and then i didn’t think at all.”
insensibly they had retreated still farther from the crowd, and now stood in a muddy corner quite alone.
“i was in love with you, joy, as much as i could ever be. i—i still am, i guess. it—seems to feel that way. i was always trying to puzzle out your status—just where you stood in the jerry-sarah household. but i didn’t understand, and so i lost you.”
“you—you needn’t blame yourself so, for not understanding,” said joy; “almost anyone might have—i can see that now.”
“no—not any one who recognizes that we’re doing transitional stuff these days. i was coasting around on last century’s roller skates. they just hit the surface. now they’re using ice skates, that go in a little. oh, i’ve thought this all out—and got my ice skates!”
“what?” she faltered.
“why, you know. we all know. last century—no matter what men were—they were all that women had—so they took them and made the best of it. now—no matter what the women of to-day are making of themselves—and a lot of women don’t exactly know what they’re making of themselves—they’re all men have—and we’re certainly not going to make the worst of it.”
joy thought. this was a mean between the extremes of the discussion held at fennelly’s between greg and the two princeton men. “then you think it’s working around——”
“yes—not in this generation, but eventually—things have got to work round to a better basis. bye and bye the world’ll get straightened out—and it won’t go back to last century’s roller skates to do it, either. it takes time, and costs a lot on the way—it cost me you—anyway, it cost me an even chance for you.” he looked down at her serious face and quoted lightly—
“might she have loved me? just as well
she might have hated me, who can tell.
where had i been now had the worst befell?
“meanwhile—here we are sopping up the rain at class day—she and i!”
“here i am keeping you from reuning with your class, you mean,” joy supplemented. “i must say good-bye and let you go back. i can’t tell you how glad i am to have seen you now, packy—to be able to remember you like this——”
“then—then i can’t see you again,” he stated, in a quiet voice.
“it—wouldn’t do much good—would it?”
he bowed. at a distance, it looked like a casual leavetaking between two as casual acquaintances. “i—suppose not. good-bye, joy!” he took her hand for the briefest fraction of a clasp, and left her.
people were jerking their way back through the entrances, and she joined the fray. out in the stadium classes in gay costumes were walking into the field; the rain was extending a few moments of leniency.
a fine drizzle started up with the air of permanency as the ivy orator finished his quips and harvard-and-its-relations flocked from the stadium to the yard. joy wondered as she looked at the faces of the girls passing by and then at their soiled-white-kid-feet, how many had found heart to enjoy the exercises in concern for their apparel which had to last through the dance that evening. félicie had managed to keep fairly dry, with the aid of her coat and umbrella, and was in average spirits.
they met hal jennings at his hall, where he was vibrating between ten relations, and joined the family board outdoors around a long table sandwiched in with many others beneath an awning. the crowd pressing about them was overpoweringly correct, and no one seemed to lose their gaiety although the rain came through the awnings and the walking underfoot was almost marshy by this time. joy ate strawberries, her teeth chattering with cold, and tried not to show that she was minding a steady trickle down her back from a hole in the awning. she met several nice looking boys who came up to greet félicie, each of whom told joy that “it would have been an awfully pretty spread out here if it hadn’t rained” and soon dashed back to their relations.
“i wish you were going to stay to the dancing, and meet them when they’re feeling right,” félicie whispered. “most of the relations will have gone by then.”
when joy was able to beat a retreat politely, félicie and hal came to the gate with her, and stood waving after her as she drove away in a cab. never had félicie’s loveliness been so breath-taking. little dark rings of hair clung around her face, the damp air curling them into tendrils no permanent wave could duplicate; her lips were parted in the smile with which she could dazzle without bringing a wrinkle or cross line into the pink and white perfection of her skin. it seemed almost incredible that such wonder of nature could have so squandered itself on one girl. . . .
wearied by the events of the day, joy went early to bed after giving madame durant a sketch of the main events of the rain. sleep came reluctantly; she was thinking over packy’s words. “no matter what the women of to-day are making of themselves—they’re all we’ve got.” “bye and bye the world’ll get straightened out—it takes time—and costs a lot on the way.” how packy had changed from the casual, flippant, “jazz-hound” of only last fall. to think about things so——she had made an error common among girls—because men of his type had never talked seriously to her, she had supposed that they never thought seriously.
it was true; these days were, must be, but transitional. excitement-eaters, dancers in the dark—all were part of the wheel of progress that seems to go back at times before it turns forward again. but “it takes time, and costs a lot on the way.”
it costs a lot, it costs a lot. had she been asleep? she was still repeating those words in the quiescent darkness of the room. what had awakened her? the call of the telephone bell, a long shriek in the black space of the night, answered her question. still half dazed, she stumbled to the door and into the hall. the telephone was on a little table outside the kitchen. she made her way sat down. “hello.”
“hello. is this brighton 7560?”
it was a man’s voice speaking, speaking hurriedly, as if something fearful was knocking behind every word, anxious to come out.
“yes,” joy steadied her voice. “joy nelson speaking.”
“oh, miss nelson, is that you—miss nelson—i—we’ve had—this is hal jennings speaking, miss nelson—i’m at the river hill hospital—we’ve had a—bad accident.”
the darkness swayed around joy as blackness sways when one’s eyes are closed and one presses one’s eyeballs. “félicie—what of félicie!” she cried into the mouthpiece.
“she—she’s horribly hurt, miss nelson. we—we just brought her here. i thought you’d be able to know—to notify——”
“not—not seriously hurt?” joy gasped, pressing the receiver close to her ear against the frenzy to throw it and its horror far from her.
“they don’t know yet—but they say they don’t think so. i—i’d come right up here, if i were you, miss nelson.”
“i’ll be up as soon as i can get there!” she cried, and started to ring off; but his voice arrested her.
“i ordered a taxi sent down for you—it’ll be there any time now.”
she put down the receiver and dashed back to her room, where she hurled herself into her clothes, her brain a confusion of terrors which gave way to compelled calm as she finished dressing and put on her hat. she mustn’t lose her head. she mustn’t lose her head—no matter what had happened. she mustn’t wake madame durant—when she saw the doctors, she would know what to tell her, how best to soften the shock. she must notify greg, and she did not know his address. learning it took going through several of félicie’s letters. getting a sleepy western union took more breathless moments. she finally sent the message: “félicie injured in accident, is at river hill hospital. come at once. joy nelson.” she glanced at her watch. it was three o’clock. three o clock in the morning, and a taxi was waiting outside!
the taxi-driver was an old irishman with sideburns and a mouth which had not gone shut since he had encountered the accident. she sat in front with him and heard his story on the way. he had been going down the long stretch of road in wayland when he had encountered the wreck—car in the ditch, young man with bloody face and one arm hanging loose, trying to pull the young lady from beneath scatterings of glass that had been the wind shield. the young man was so distraught-like he wouldn’t even have heard a car go by, but he had pulled up and offered help. together they had taken away the glass embracing félicie and carried her to the taxi.
“glass!” cried joy. “did it—is her face——”
“i dunno, miss. couldn’t see much of it for blood.” and he resumed his narration. the nearest hospital he knew was the river hill, and they had driven there. it was private, and it was not their custom to take accident cases, but in the face of this piteous spectacle they could not refuse admittance.
river hill was on the outskirts of brighton, and they had scaled the hill almost before he finished the story. she paid him, with no time to reflect that he had been paid in advance, no room for anything but the horror of supposition, as she was admitted.
hal jennings was in the ante room off from the hall—his arm in a sling and a bandage over one side of his face.
“félicie!” joy cried, without preface. “was she cut? did anything happen to her face?”
“that’s what’s so terrible,” he said, looking away from her after his first rush of relieved recognition. “my god, miss nelson,—it’s—it looked as if it were cut to pieces.”
félicie’s face! that glory and wonder of perfection—cut to pieces! what would be left? her senses reeled.
“where are the doctors? where are they? i must see them. what do they say?”
“they’re with her now. they’re coming down here—as soon as they finish.”
she looked at him, acknowledging his injuries for the first time. “you weren’t hurt badly?”
“no.” he brushed his affairs aside. “what did you do—about notifying people?”
“i didn’t wake madame durant. i wired her—her fiancé.”
“her—fiancé!” he took a step back. “i didn’t know she was engaged.”
“she—isn’t,” mumbled joy. “but it’s the man she loves and who loves her and they intend to get married some day—what do they call it nowadays?”
it was a ghostly place, a hospital at that hour of the morning. a nurse dozed at the switchboard in the hall. the lights were subdued. silence was terrible.
“how—how did you happen to be out in wayland, anyway?” she asked. “you haven’t told me—anything.”
“why—we left the dance about ten-thirty—félicie was bored, and i’d had enough of it—if we only had stayed!—and we motored out to the red and black, where we ate and danced a while. we started back about twelve-thirty. you know it’s a long way—we hadn’t been there much more than an hour. coming back we were both full of pep and decided to race everything we saw. we didn’t see anything for a long time, and we were afraid we weren’t going to get our chance, when turning into that stretch of road up in wayland we saw the tail light of a car at the other end. i put on every bit of speed there was and we came along—i don’t know how fast—as fast as the car can go—could go. it was a clear stretch you see;—and then all at once the wheel went silly—just like that! the steering gear broke—and before i knew even what had happened, the car went into the ditch head foremost. i don’t know how long it was after that i came to and shuffled around. it was sure fortunate that that cab should have happened along.”
he was talking in little, weary jerks. for the first time joy thought of his side of the matter—his car smashed, and himself put out of active business on his class day night—what interpretation would his parents put on these unglossable facts?
“i’m sorry for you, mr. jennings,” she said. “your people—it’s a shame.”
he acknowledged this with a nod that showed the subject had occurred to him before. “nothing really matters if félicie comes out all right. all the same—my people will never understand or believe how this came about—or get over it.”
“older people are that way,” said joy.
“it won’t get into the papers, anyway—not from this hospital, thank god! and i’ve bribed the cabman.”
a step in the halls, and a young man in white linen came to the door.
“dr. dexter!” said hal. joy was on one side of him, as he came to the other. “félicie—is she—how is she?”
“félicie’s all right,” he said, and smiled meaninglessly at them. “not a bone broken, although she is bruised and shaken and pretty badly cut. we’ve been taking some stitches—beautiful work——”
“but her face—her face,” cried joy, “was her face cut? tell us——”
“her face—yes. it was cut rather badly. but it’s been sewed up now, and with some novacain she will have an easy night.”
“but will she—will the cuts heal? cuts do heal, don’t they?” joy implored.
“oh, certainly, cuts heal. of course, there’ll be a nasty scar pretty much over the whole of her face——”
she blinked her eyes at the white-coated doctor who could say such unthinkable things with brisk, unchanged readiness. “félicie’s face scarred. she was—she was the loveliest thing you ever saw. the loveliest thing you ever saw.”
“i would suggest,” said the doctor, “that you both go home and get a little sleep. everything will be better in the morning. perhaps you can even see her then.”
“see her!” hal jennings echoed.
joy looked at his face. pity, of course—but strongest, the recoil of horror.
later, she could not force her troubled brain to sleep. félicie of the unforgettable loveliness—with her face puckered into scars—how would a love that had been sorely tried already receive this hideousness? and how—how to tell madame durant. . . .
when the yellow rays of a spotless morning scoured clean by yesterday’s rainfall embraced her room, she rose and whipped up her flagging nerves with a cold sponge. before the world-conquering exhilaration of the plunge could wear off, she poured a concise account of the accident into the ear-trumpet, minimizing it to such an extent that madame durant demanded why they hadn’t brought félicie straight home.
“her cuts are too many,” joy explained, “but the important thing is there are no bones broken, no serious injuries.”
the two reached the hospital at nine o’clock and waited an hour before madame durant was allowed to go in and sit by félicie’s bed for five minutes. the old lady came down rather shaken. “she’s all bandaged up,” she said, “and of course she can’t talk loud enough for me to hear.” “but she’s doing splendidly,” amended the nurse who had accompanied her.
“may—may i go on now?” asked joy.
the nurse hesitated. “i really wouldn’t—so soon after this call——”
“then i’ll wait, if you’ll let me know when i can come.” so joy waited alone in the ante room, and answered hal jennings’ anxious inquiries over the phone. . . .
finally the nurse who smiled like an automaton came to the door and beckoned. joy looked at her watch. it was half past twelve; she had been in the anteroom over three hours.
a long white bed with a long, white figure, the white coverlet lapping itself around the gracious lines. félicie’s hair in a loose, thick braid, her tendrils sketching dark fancies over the pillow. a mass of bandages, from which félicie’s perfect lips escaped, unharmed. félicie’s brown velvet eyes peering oddly from recesses in the bandaging. “joy” —said the lips and her voice carried high lights scarcely dimmed by pain—“you are a darling. miss clark, i must have a glass of water!”
as the nurse vanished—“that was just to get her out. she’s always here. she drives me wild!” a little pause; and the figure stirred. “joy—you’ll tell me, won’t you? my face—what’s going to come of it? it’s so cut—and no one will tell me—how it’s going to look.”
“how can anyone know so soon?” said joy with taut lips. the brown eyes looked at her for a steadfast minute, over their horizon of bandaging.
“never mind, joy—i know. my face—oh, i can’t say it! but i know. i can feel there isn’t even much of it left.”
“cuts always feel worse than they are——”
“i could tell. by the way they looked when i said anything. my eyes—were left whole.” her voice was conversational. “why wasn’t i—cut all to pieces while i was about it? i might just as well be dead.”
“félicie, you mustn’t say such things!” joy said weakly.
“i might—just as well be dead. you can’t deny it. what is left me? no man could stand a face all gashed and sewed——”
“you don’t know it’s going to be all——”
“oh, yes—i do. . . . don’t let hal jennings come in here—will you? i know it wasn’t his fault—we would never have left the dance if i hadn’t wanted some excitement—but he stands for—everything for which i’ve always passed up greg and the only things that matter. the—only things—that matter! they all come under—love, joy. and i passed greg up—and now it’s too late.”
an interlude while the nurse appeared and pleasantly hinted for joy’s departure, which brought about a paroxysm beneath the bandages,——
“i want her to stay! she’s got to stay! it isn’t as if i were really sick! i wish i was, but you know i’m not! she’s got to stay! you can go to your lunch now, or something! you know the doctor said i could see people and be alone and things!”
and when the nurse departed, whether on a search for the doctor or her lunch joy did not know; “i hate her! oh, my god, i wish i were dead!”
it was at that awful moment while joy racked her bursting brain for what to say that a knock came at the door.
“don’t let them in. it’s another nurse, or something. i’m not well enough to have a bath yet, and they keep talking about it.”
the knock was repeated, and the door flung open. greg was in the doorway; the boy in his face gone to manhood, his skin the color of untarnished silver.
“they told me—félicie!” and he crossed to the bed, his eyes travelling over joy as if she were the little rug that was on the floor. “félicie, my darling—thank god you’re here!”
“greg!” the perfect lips articulated. “greg—how did you come here?—go away!”
“go away! when i’ve done nothing else but aim for your side since i heard. . . . how are you feeling, dear? they told me downstairs that you would be quite all right in a short time——”
“you don’t understand, greg. they didn’t tell you—” the bandages quivered. joy interposed.
“félicie, you really aren’t well enough—we’ll go now, and come back later——”
“i want him to hear first! i want him to hear first! greg,—my face is cut to pieces. i shall never be beautiful again. i can say i was now, because i’m—not—any more. i’ll be ugly—-horrible—do you hear? now go away! i never—never want to see you again!”
the brown eyes closed, the mouth relaxed, drawn down by little quivers of agony. for one minute of heart’s horror greg stood silent above the bed. over by the door joy watched, breath caught in midair, as the boy suddenly went on his knees beside the bed and fell to stroking her prodigal hair.
“why—sweetheart!” he said, in a crooning voice—almost like that of a mother soothing a bogey-terrified child—“what do you think a few little cuts on the face amount to? you couldn’t be anything but beautiful if you—tried! your hair—it’s the most wonderful hair in the world! your form—that in itself would make a beauty out of most girls! your eyes, félicie—and your—lips!”
and, his head bowed, he kissed the lips.
it was then that the nurse returned, armed with an official looking interne. miss durant was to remain absolutely undisturbed, which was certainly not her condition at present. . . . to-morrow she would be better able to receive—strenuous callers. . . .
joy and greg left in a silence which lasted until they reached out-of-doors. then greg spoke: “i’ll go in town and get settled somewhere, then i’ll come back and camp around the place. they’ve got to let me see her again to-day.”
“but do you think they will, when they said——”
“she’s got to hear me! there she is thinking—thinking a few little cuts will make any difference to me——”
“it’s—it’s more than few little cuts, greg.”
“well—what if it is? she’s the girl i love. how could she think that i would—that i could—stop caring for her—because she is the victim of a hideous accident?”
joy became conscious that she was looking at a very wonderful thing. a man in the world she had been learning to view so cynically—a man who was not made of such slim elements that he could cease to love. . . . and so she made her discovery. a man does not love a girl for what is in her. he loves her for and with what is in him. what could be greater honour than to have the love of a man such as he?
he took her to the door of félicie’s apartment, and she went in to reassure madame durant with tales of how much félicie had been able to talk and how comfortable, comparatively, she was. it approached the time to start in town for her lesson, and she gathered up her music from the little upright, with loving hands. all passes; art alone endures.
then suddenly joy cried: “no—no!” in such a rending voice that some faint echo penetrated even to madame durant, who made her way into the living-room in time to see joy throw her music violently from her. it scattered over the room, in a chaos of sheets, a wilderness of notes.
“why, joy!” the old lady said reprovingly, and reached for the ear-trumpet to hear an explanation of this pettish behavior. but joy, with a strange, breathless look, dashed by her down the hall.
she went into her room and closed the door. it was a long afternoon. part of the time she would fall into a sleepy contemplation of the wall, but between these blanks she thought. the only things that matter! they all come under—love.
she had always known this. she had been building of herself a temple to love, when blaspheming hands had shaken the temple, leaving love a thing to be feared. she had shuddered away from love and turned to music. that could not turn and rend her. . . . then love had come, again, so bright and pure a thing that she could not be afraid. but the bright blaze had burned itself out, and then when nothing was left . . . there was music. and the soul of music had united with her own soul as had been predicted—weaving itself ever more closely into her being. then love had come again—and this time it had not burst upon her in the flame of romance, the golden glory of dreams; instead, it had quietly encompassed her until she knew—that it spelled all of life to her. keeping pace with music, it had woven itself ever more closely into her being. the discovery had made her dismiss it—as if a thing that had had become a part of her, could be dismissed. but music was a part of her, too!
félicie had given up “the only things that matter,” and met her terrible lesson. she, joy, must cease wavering in the world of phantoms, of those who put love aside, those to whom it does not come, and those who are incapable of love.
it was towards evening that she telephoned jim. a dreadful fear assailed her while she was waiting for him to come to the wire. supposing he were sick! supposing he wouldn’t be there—she had always regarded him as an institution that never failed. she had heard of girls regarding men in that way before—and how they had been surprised when they turned to the institution, after a long time. in her overtired, overwrought condition, his familiar voice brought a relief so great as to be almost hysterical. she babbled out the story of félicie’s calamity, and implored him to come out. she implored him with unnecessary fervour. . . . when she had rung off, she realized that she was overdoing things, and calmed down to the extent of telephoning the hospital and getting greg on the wire. he informed her that as yet he had not been able to see félicie.
“i brought bales of roses that they’ve surrounded her with in her bed,” he said; “and she always likes things like that.”
“i’ll be up later;” and joy relayed the latest bulletin to madame durant, who had several times during the day arrayed herself in her bonnet and cloak preparatory to another journey to the hospital, being stopped each time by joy’s assurances concerning the futility of another visit that day.
“why don’t you practice?” asked the old lady, now noting her restlessness. “you haven’t practiced at all to-day—and i don’t know what félicie’d do, if she could see all that music spilled on the parlour floor.”
joy took the hint, and went to pick up her music. all the sweepingly dramatic moments of life seem to have the inglorious aftermath of picking up after oneself. it was a slow process, putting the sheets together, sorting them. when she came to a favorite, or an intriguing bit, she would sit on her feet and play on the glorified instrument that her voice had now become, and amuse herself by letting her voice go off in sky-rockets.
it was so that jim’s ring found her—eyes a warm heliotrope, cheeks in exultant flame, as singing well always left her. he dwelt on her radiance a moment before he spoke.
“joy, that’s ghastly about félicie—but i’ve been thinking it over—and i know this plastic surgery they used in the war can do something—they say sometimes it makes people better looking than they were before they had to have it done.”
“plastic surgery!” joy cried.
“yes—of course, nature had done so much for félicie that it might be hard to improve upon what there was before in that case; but they can do a lot. the doctors there have probably got that up their sleeves, and are waiting to see how the cuts heal.”
“i must telephone greg,” joy flashed; but she paused a moment before going down the hall. madame durant’s door was open, and if she saw that joy had finished her picking up, she might come into the parlor. once there, she was good for the evening, as félicie had often warned her.
“jim,” she said softly, “you’re always solving problems for me—aren’t you?”
she came up to him, gingerly, and stopped while still a little distance away. although the fire of song was still spreading its flame within her—she was very sure. but how did one say these things?
“solve just one more for me, jim—and then we’ll either be through—or just beginning. if—if i needed you—and needed my music too—what—what would be the answer?”
“i—i don’t know what you mean, joy,” he said, all at once very white and intent. “but any answer to a question like that would be—love. i love you—all of you. your voice, your music is a part of you and i love that too. if—if you needed me—and needed music—you could have both. it’s been done by others. men are not so conceited nowadays that they imagine they can mean everything to a woman. does—does that help you in your problems?”
“yes, it does!” she cried, suddenly exultant, “jim—i need you more than my music, or anything else in this world! music and love go hand in hand—but now i know—that love always leads the way!”
she was in his arms; peace that she had never known was sighing its way into all her being; and an ecstasy born of that peace, that transcended all the beauty of music heard or dreamed.
